


A Honeyed Life

by Tish



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Frottage, Graffiti, History porn, Illya's explosivesexuality, M/M, Science porn, language porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7219186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/pseuds/Tish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vacation stroll around a city, some lunch, and maybe a kiss or two makes a honeyed life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Honeyed Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [0positiv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0positiv/gifts).



Napoleon leaned against a wall and took a moment to appreciate the day. Pleasantly warm, with a gentle breeze sighing through the trees, the morning was looking to become a beautiful day. He adjusted the lens of his camera and focussed on a window box full of flowers. Just as he made an adjustment, a young woman leaned out and started tending the blooms, giving Napoleon a good view of her expansive bosom. He smiled as he appreciated the balance between flesh and the tantalising possibilities of what the exquisite fabric of her dress covered. He smiled and snapped the picture.

“Napoleon!” Illya hissed at him.

“You know, when you said you were going to take me on a private tour, I didn't expect a spot of breaking and entering, Illya.” Napoleon nodded good-naturedly at the now unlocked gate Illya was standing by.

Illya raised his left eyebrow slightly and suppressed a smile. “Come along, Napoleon.”

As he followed Illya, Napoleon looked up at the window and whispered, “Ciao bella!”

“Your accent is improving, I mean it's not as terrible as your French, but it will do,” Illya noted as he adjusted his rucksack and led the way down an ancient street.

“You're a nasty Russian,” Napoleon laughed as he hopped over the stepping stones and stopped by Illya in the shade of a wall. Napoleon looked around at the eerily quiet city, contemplating the beauty and underlying horror.

Illya thumbed through a battered old notebook and oriented himself with a hand-drawn diagram. “Yes, this is what I want to show you. This way!”

“An ancient ghost town, spooky,” mused Napoleon.

“Captured at the moment of destruction, this city has lain undisturbed for almost two thousand years!” Illya spoke with reverence and awe as he walked along a row of shops. “Look, up there.”

Napoleon followed where Illya was pointing and squinted to make out the inscription. 

Illya translated, his voice soft and low. “Love dictates to me as I write and Cupid shows me the way, but may I die if god should wish me to go on without you.”

“That's a very sweet sentiment, a little too morbid for my tastes, though,” Napoleon admitted.

 

Illya grinned. “How about this one? The one who buggers a fire burns his penis.”

Napoleon's sudden laugh echoed around them. “Illya, that is not what that says!”

Illya simply nodded, his face giving no emotion away.

“I'm glad I wasn't drinking anything, I'd have to change my shirt," Napoleon stared up at the graffiti in disbelief.

“That's good, because I have a very good bottle of wine for lunch, and I would hate for you to wear it instead of drinking it. Speaking of which. Lucius Istacidius, I regard as a stranger anyone who doesn’t invite me to dinner.” Illya pointed at the next inscription as they walked along.

 

“I get the impression you'd love it here,” Napoleon laughed, casting a wary eye at Mt. Vesuvius in the distance. “Volcanoes notwithstanding.”

“Indeed. Whoever loves, let him flourish. Let him perish who knows not love. Let him perish twice over whoever forbids love.” Illya slowly shifted his gaze to Napoleon as he recited the words.

“Well, it is all you need,” Napoleon smile was as bright as the sun's as they strolled along in the rising heat.

 

“This was a bar. We two dear men, friends forever, were here. If you want to know our names, they are Gaius and Aulus.” Illya gazed into the distance and nodded slightly. “A good sentiment, yes.”

“There seemed to be a lot of bars. The weekends must have been fun.” Napoleon counted off the similar looking buildings.

“Bars and brothels. Cafés and bakeries. All along this street. Ah!” Illya stopped and paused before translating the next set of graffiti. “Weep, you girls. My penis has given you up. Now it penetrates men’s behinds. Goodbye, wondrous femininity!”

Napoleon stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide. “Alright, Illya, now you're just making things up.” He paused, an incredulous expression painted over his face. “ _Aren't you?_ ”

Illya handed him the notebook, his face betraying only the slightest of smirks. “That page. Latin to English. Read it for yourself.”

“Where did you get this book?” Napoleon slowly sifted through the pages.

“One of the archaeologists let me borrow it. Come on, we'll have lunch in the garden.” Illya led the way inside a building and past a room with a huge mural. Napoleon paused and whistled as he took in the full, erotic effect of the artwork.

Illya walked back and stood close behind Napoleon, his chin resting on Napoleon's shoulder. “Oh yes, they did like their pornographic art. Remind me to take you to the Gabinetto Segreto later.”

Napoleon looked over his shoulder and grinned. “They weren't shy little petals, were they? Let's eat.”

 

The inner courtyard had a gracefully curving tree for shade and Illya sat cross-legged as he unpacked the rucksack. Napoleon sat beside him and unwrapped the sandwiches. 

“Eh, panini,” Napoleon gesticulated with the food like an overacting waiter.

“Napoleon, please don't hurt my lunch,” Illya chided as he took his sandwich. He set it carefully on his lap and gently rolled the wine bottle around. “I suppose we can be heathens and not let the wine breathe as much as it needs.”

“Be heathenistic, be a bacchant, celebrate!” Lying down on his side, Napoleon seductively raised his glass as Illya poured the rich, red wine. 

“Be bold! For tomorrow we may die!” Illya sipped, waited until Napoleon had sipped, then set aside his glass. He leaned in close and whispered, “Lovers are like bees in that they live a honeyed life.”

Napoleon swirled the wine in his glass, looking up at Illya, then at a bee that danced from flower to flower. “Your archaeologist friend, I take it today is a day off?”

“We won't be disturbed,” Illya whispered, leaning in closer.

“I get the feeling that all this translation was your idea of foreplay, and I bet you've made plans for a midnight trek up the side of that dormant volcano hoping it'll go off,” Napoleon mused.

“Oh, good heavens no. I want to see your face, so we're doing the trek tomorrow morning. Actually, there was an eruption during the war. A small one, not too bad. You see, the tectonic plates are colliding against each other underneath the volcano,” Illya quickly straddled Napoleon's thighs and pressed down on him. “Like this.” Illya started grinding against Napoleon's legs, pushing down against his crotch.

Napoleon felt his pants tightening and he held onto Illya's thighs. “You keep doing that and you might get another type of eruption happening.”

Illya kept a straight face as he slowly felt along Napoleon's thigh. “It's plain to see that there's nothing dormant down there.”

“You bet, this is much more fun than making a baking soda volcano,” Napoleon pushed his hand along Illya's thigh, appreciating the responding soft moan he got back.

Illya let his gaze drift off into the sky. “The American scholastic system's fascination with science fair volcanoes is an enduring delight to me. You know-”

“Hey, finish what you started, Brainiac!” Napoleon chided, adding a squeeze for good measure.

“My apologies, Napoleon. I think we started with lovers as bees, yes?” Illya looked down with a smile.

“Come and get some honey, then,” Napoleon pulled Illya in for a lingering kiss as Illya's borrowed notebook fluttered to the ground. The breeze flipped a page and the sun shone onto a passage.

“If you are able, but not willing, why do you put off our joy and kindle hope and tell me always to come back tomorrow. So, force me to die since you force me to live without you. Your gift will be to stop torturing me. Certainly, hope returns to the lover what it has once snatched away.”


End file.
